The Perception of Justice
by ScarlettAriandale
Summary: Can shadow matter be contained into a needle? What would the injection of such a substance do? When Rachel Carrigan went down into the sewers, she had no idea - she just needed the money to tests promised. But it results in a change of almost every facet of her life. The question is, will it be for the better? Three years after Bane's takeover, if Batman had remained in Gotham
1. Chapter 1

The mix of high-tech medical gear and sewer grime makes my heart thrum faster, jarring against my ribcage as the two big guys lead me over to what looks like a mix between a dentist chair – I've seen them in movies, never been to one myself – and some interrogation device. It looks like it can fold back flat, but there are open metal latches at the wrists and head ready to close shut on the next victim. Me.

One of them shoves me towards it and grunts, "Sit down."

"I want my money first." I turn to look at them, fixing my face in a blank set – I don't have the guts to try brave. "Two thousand – that was the deal."

"And still is."

I didn't notice the third guy – he's in the darker area of the makeshift lab, sitting in front of a desk. He sits in a weirdly stiff manner, his narrow face made to look sharper by the light coming off the screen in front of him. It's blue, with white writing too small for me to read from where I am, but there's a picture a DNA strand turning slowly on the right half of the screen, with two branches in red. He turns to face me, and dark takes away any chance of making him out. "However the pay is if you actually take part in the trials. I need to see if you have the proper genetics – otherwise it will just kill you outright."

"Kill me _outright_?" I wince as my voice squeaks.

He laughs, getting up out of his chair and walking over to me. I realize he's a lot younger than I thought as he steps forward into the light forming a circle around the chair, with short black hair and eyes that are a weird frozen blue – like thick ice. He does have a sharp face, though, and sunken cheeks. He's not wearing the classic white lab coat I was expecting. Instead he wears a suit, and the dress shirt underneath is untucked. He grabs my shoulder, and though it's usually a friendly gesture I find my body going cold. "Don't get jumpy now, odds are good you won't have the right features I'm looking for anyways – no one has yet. Your almost there. And let's face it; if you didn't need the money, you wouldn't be here."

I think of Emma, her small face still round from baby fat, her hair in pigtails. Innocent. Hopeful. Mom needs money to keep her that way. And if I steal it, Dad will know. So I nod, and go over to the chair. Like the air in the room it's freezing, and I shiver as I sit down on the squeaky pleather. The doctor grins and grabs a stool, rolling over to my side. "Good girl. Arm please."

I make sure not to let my hands near the clamps, and sit up straight as I shrug off my leather jacket and hold out my left arm to him. The two big guys leave the room, the weird grey door shutting behind them with an oddly final sounding thud. I take a deep breath, trying to calm my pulse which is still through the roof. It doesn't work. With a cotton ball the doctor cleans the inside of my elbow with a solution, humming while he works, murmuring lines now and then – oblivious or utterly uninterested in my nerves.

I look away as he brings out the needle, and he laughs again. "Don't like these? Well that's perfectly natural. Trypanophobia is very common."

"Yeah I know." I get past my tightly pressed lips, breathing firmly through my nose as I continue to stare at the computer screen. I wince as there's a sharp pain in my arm, but it's brief.

"There, all done." He announces, putting another cottonball and my arm. "Hold that for me."

I do, and watch as he removes a small tube from the needle filled with thick red liquid. _Keep breathing. Keep breathing._

"So," he says as he gets up, taking the blood over to a tall narrow machine of dull grey metal – sort of like a filing cabinet, only it hasn't got any drawers, just a small square going into it with a holder to fit the blood sample. "Aren't you going to ask about my work?"

"I just want the money." I shrug, looking at the neon pink converses on my feet.

"Owe someone?"

"No."

"Drugs?"

"No." I laugh, shaking my head. "Not from the Narrows is addicted to crack you know."

"Not all." He agrees, as the blood sample tube shoots up into the machine, and at shoulder height a slide of metal moves back to show another screen similar to the one on the computer. "Well, anyway, I'm attempting to make a more… superior, breed of human. A type above today's boring modern conventions of… morality."

I feel a small smirk about my lips. "You mean the Batman."

He looks sharply to me, and I stiffen – very aware I've said something wrong. Oh yeah. He meant the Batman. You can tell – the ones who have run into him. They're always getting pissy when you say his name.

"Nicely deduced." He said slowly, walking over to me. "Have you ever met him, Miss…"

"Michaels." I continue to stare firmly at my shoes as he looms over me. "And no, I haven't. Have a friend who did though – got the snot beat out of him."

"Then you must understand why he needs to be overcome." The doctor folds his arms, tilting his head. "He stands in the way of progress, Miss Michaels. Without good and evil there can be no forward movement."

"And what you're making is going to level the field?" I ask, trying to imagine something like that – a person equal to Batman. Of course Gotham has its super-bads – the Joker, Scarecrow, Bane three years ago. But Batman wins every time.

"What I'm making is going to destroy the field and create a new one altogether… my rules."

When I don't respond he goes back to the machine, sighing impatiently. "It doesn't usually take this long." He frowns at the glowing yellow strand of DNA running up the screen. "It -"

The machine lets out a light beep, and the DNA turns entirely green – all but two strands of flashing red. The doctor's brow raise. "Well, that was unexpected." He reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a small silver remote. "Congratulations Miss Michaels. You're my first patient."

I don't know what I expected – satisfaction, maybe. Test means money for Emma, right? But all I can think of is the statue of Batman at city hall my class went to see on a field trip two years ago. Looming, hunched, dark. And this guy wants to use my DNA to make a weapon to kill him? It's too much heat to take – he would find out, come for me. The Batman doesn't kill, or his buddies Robin and Nightwing, but they could sure stop criminals dead in their tracks. Few enough people die of broken bones.

_Hell no. _

I leap off the chair, bolting for the door. But as I grab the handle, yanking on it, it doesn't move. Locked. It's locked. Something comes over my head and snags around my throat, cutting off air as it tightens. The doctor's voice cackles in my ear. "Don't forget your jacket."

Then it loosens and his hand comes in front of my face, and a white powder explodes over me. I gasp, and the white mist snakes up into my mouth and down my throat. I drop, coughing and clutching my neck as it explodes into pins and needles. And then I realize my hands are melting.

I pull them back and slabs of flesh fly off, splattering on the door which is getting taller and wider. Growing, growing, cracking the cement roof and sending powder raining down on me. I scramble back, and arms under my armpits guide me back onto a chair. Claws snap shut over my wrists, and pin my forehead back. I start screaming, thrashing and kicking at a figure coming toward me. And then I see its face – a tattered fabric, with sharp yellow eyes and a sewn shut mouth. But between the thick black twine something red is oozing out – blood, blood is pour from its mouth down the front of a untucked suit shirt. And I know at once who he is.

I shut my eyes tight, my head spinning like a top. _I can't breathe... I can't breathe!_

Then there's a sharp pain in my arm, and a deep raspy voice reverberates around my skull. "It would have been much easier if you just sat nicely."

Pain. Raw nerves, concentrated agony. It's like my heart is pumping shards of glass into my veins, spreading in seconds. I scream. I sob. I beg. I'm beyond pride, beyond shame. All I can think about is an end to this. I try to open my eyes, but I must not be able to because everything is still black. My body begins to thrash uncontrollably, and foam gurgles up in my mouth spilling over.

And then, my own frail body saves me. It sends me past anywhere I can hurt. At first I think I'm dead, but then I realize I can hear Doctor Crane speaking.

"Well that was invigorating. Dump her, and then look into the Michaels's when they put in a missing persons. The DNA trait might be hereditary."


	2. Chapter 2

It's a long time before I'm moved away from the water. The fall into it must have been painful – it was shallow, and the concrete caught me rather than the fowl smelling substance. But it carried me away from them, and didn't manage to get into my lungs, so I couldn't really complain, even when my movement was stopped by something thin and metal. It took time to realize it was the sewer grate.

At first I'm dragged across concrete, but then I'm scooped up, and the warmth of human contact sends electrical pulses through me. Fingers press to my neck, and hold there a moment. "Good, you're still with me."

I open my eyes slowly, when I'm certain it's not the Scarecrow's voice I'm hearing. The face I find smiling at me has a mess of black hair, but the eyes are dark, the smile less… manic. "Hi."

He's older than me, but he looks like he just barely fits the adult status. Still his clothes are nice, his teeth too straight. He's not big money – but he must have some. He smells like some musky sort of cologne. "Are you a cop?"

He laughs, shaking his head. "No, not exactly."

"Not exactly." I repeat, hunching my shoulders as I ready my roster of snide remarks. "What the hell does 'not exactly' mean?"

"I was." He doesn't try to stop me as I move away from him, sitting up for myself and clutching my face. "Don't tell me kids are still hiding out in the sewers?"

"Makes a good place to get high and laugh at donut-munchers." I sneer, running my hands up through my hair. That's when I notice I'm wearing my leather Jacket. Reflexively, I put a hand to my neck. "What's your excuse?"

"I check here every now and again. Anybody who has trouble in there seems to wind up here." I can feel him watching me. "So let me guess – you tripped and fell into the water, and you've got no idea how those marks on your neck got there."

Damn, so there are marks. I reach up to my forehead, which I realize now _is_ hurting. That's where I hit the drain first – and there's a lovely dent to show for it. "What can I say? I'm a cluts."

"What's your name?"

"Sorry pal, but you're not a cop anymore." I get up, shivering as water comes off me in trails. I'm soaked through – my jeans plastered to my legs. "I don't gotta tell you shit."

"Uh-huh." He stands to, examining me. "But if you give me your name, I'll give you a ride home."

I snort, tugging my Jacket on better and pushing my hair back again. "Buddy, I wouldn't ride with a blueblood – no matter how pretty you are."

"You think I'm pretty?" He asks with a smirk, and I roll my eyes as I start the walk down to the pathway meant for construction crews. "You're gonna get mugged walking around at night!"

"It's my buddies who do the mugging!" I shout back, breaking out into a run as soon as I'm out of sight. I climb up the side reservoir easily, trying to get my bearings as I reach the top. It's like I figured – I'm gonna have to take the subway to get home – it would be least an hour walk from there, down by Jenninson street. I can take the subway to the Parkway station, grab my stuff from Mickey's on the way home. I wasn't about to go into the sewer with my gear, in case they were gonna try and mug me.

The thought of the climb down into the manhole makes me touch my arm, where the blood sample came out of, and where that crazy son-of-a-bitch probably injected whatever made me crash like that.

"Bastard." I mutter, and head for the nearest station. I make a point of keeping my head down as I get on, eyes running over the familiar graffiti and my nose detects the usual smell of unwashed bodies. After the train was crashed back when all the cities water was vaporized, Wayne enterprises rebuilt, but it went to hell again after the city went crazy with Bane as overlord.

I wave hey to Davis – a homeless guy who sleeps on the subway. His name isn't really Davis, but since he won't give me one in case 'they' sent me, I made one for him. He eyes me a moment before his brain works past the sludge of addiction, and then he smiles and waves back calling, "They haven't even come today, Rachel." He frowns suddenly. "Is that why you're here? Why are you wet?"

"Just heading home, Davis." I report, giving a little salute as I pass him and head for one of the empty back seats.

"Rachel, you smell." Davis complains, and I slouch, pulling up my hood. It's when I shove my hands into my pockets that I realize there's something balled in the right one. It's spongy to the touch, and when I pull it out it starts to drip as well. But I recognize it instantly – it's a wad of cash. Two thousand.

"Well damn." I laugh, shaking my head. Crane was good for it after all.

I stuff it back in and zip up the pocket, shaking my head. Not worth it – not even close. But now Emma can get new clothes so those girls at her school will lay off, and I can pay off what Mom owes to her sister. Maybe I can even get a new board, since mine's smashed from that fight with Lex – my ex, and yes it rhymes. He smashed my skateboard. I smashed his head in.

It's not a long ride to Parkway, and watching Davis scan under the seats for bugs and scare off some lady makes it go by faster. He advises I go see 'Hillybilly Avery' on the way home, and I promise I will as I climb off onto the metal station way, with a large glowing sign reading 'Parkway' above a bench. The pavement is dry tonight. It hasn't rained in a while, winter finally pissing off to let us have some decent weather. I keep my hood up as I go down the stairs, and make sure not to look two close at the two guys stuffed close in one corner trading things. I pretend not to recognize Mrs. Tabriums standing on the street corner leaned suggestively talking to a guy in his car, and besides that it's an easy walk to Mickey's, apart from the cold. It's not so much the weather as the wet that freezes me though, making his bar a welcome sight.

Mickey's is a full on bar, so if everything was right I wouldn't step foot in it, but since cops don't really come around The Narrows anymore with organized crime on the rise again after the end of the Dent act, I don't blink walking in. The air is smoky like usual, and the low lighting makes it easy for people to find places where nobody can get a good look at their business. Mickey looks up as I come in and waves me over to the bar as I drop my hood.

Mickey's a big fella, so he doesn't need a bouncer. No one triest shit under his roof. He's in his late thirties, and bald with this brown eyebrows. His got dark brown eyes, and wearing his tee-shirt I can see the array of tattoos inked across his skin pretty well. There's more colored skin than plain – he's pretty proud of his Charlestown heritage. First time we met some guy grabbed my ass on the street. I punched him, but Mickey walked right up and pasted him to the pavement. He's a good guy, despite what every cop in the country seems to think.

"I'm gunna start charging your backpack rent, Carrigan." He announces as I come up.

Mickey always calls me by my last name, and only the light Boston accent makes me accept it. What? You think I'm stupid enough to give doctor in the sewers my real name?

"Sorry Mickey, I know." I shift, grimacing.

He frowns, noticing the water. His eyes focus on my forehead. "Wha' happened to you?"

"You don't want to know." I force a laugh.

"I need to kick someone's teeth in?" He insists. "Your Da' being a dick?"

"Always." A real laugh. "But this wasn't him. Come on, Mickey, give me my bag."

He raises his brows and shrugs, ducking down to grab my pack. As he passes it to me he says, "Come into the back, let's see that head."

I groan, but don't argue as I shoulder my backpack and follow him into his backroom. The drastically brighter area makes me narrow my eyes, and by the time I can properly make out his office he's got me seated in his desk chair and is pushing my hair back squinting at the dent. "You lose a fight with a sludge hamma?"

"I got thrown off something a little high up." I answer as honestly as I can. "Lucky I'm so thick headed huh?"

He chuckles, then grabs out a bottle of whiskey from the drawer and a wets a towel with it. "Put that on it. You probably should get it checked – mighta cracked that skull of yours all the same."

I wince as I press the cloth against my forehead, the alcohol bringing back the pain again. "Like I have money for a doctor? Look Mickey I gotta get home – Dad's gonna be pissed I'm out this late."

"Then I'll drive you, say you were working for me." He says as he goes into the side bathroom.

"No – you stay and work, I want to walk, give my clothes more time to dry." Of course I _don't_ want to walk. But I don't want him doing me too many favors either. Feels too much like charity.

He rolls his eyes at me as he comes back, his jacket and keys in hand. "Shut up and come on."

My complaints fall on deaf ears as we go back through the bar, which I realize is actually empty. That sends dread through me. "How late is it?"

"Four." He locks up behind himself, so he doesn't notice when I breathe in sharply. _Shit_. I hurry after him to his truck, a hulking black thing with rust rotting the metal around the wheels. As we climb in I'm met by the insistently piney smell of the air freshener. I stuff my bag between my feet, and drum my fingers on the seat until I recognize the fake leather. My hands jerk up instinctively, and when I glance over Mickey is staring at me. "You're making my nose itch kid."

"Can we please just hurry?" I beg as the truck groans to life, illuminating the clock on the dash. 4:23.

_Damn it!_

"Whatever you say." He shrugs, and pulls of onto the street.


	3. Chapter 3

(*Warning, swearing, SWEARING, swearing - that's why it's M! Anyhow, enjoy!*)

I feel myself slink down instinctively as we come into view of the apartment. My father and I live in a decent building – for the Narrows. The outside is brick, with a long crooked spine on the side – the black metal fire escape. The door has graffiti, but so does everything on the street. The doors are thick green metal with grated windows, and there's a panel with buttons on the side but they haven't worked to call people in a while. I fish the key out of my bag quickly, chewing my lip as I unlock it and rush in, Mickey calling a sarcastic thanks for holding the door as I go past the silver mail boxes to the stairs with the peeled metal railing.

"You're awful eaga to get home." Mickey observes as I take the stairs two at a time – something he does naturally.

"I'm not eager." I roll my eyes. "I'm hoping Dad's passed out or hasn't noticed I'm not in my room yet."

Mickey sighs, but I just shrug. My story is like almost every kid on the street. I don't bother with self-pity. I live on the third floor, apartment 304. I pause as we reach it, and lean my ear to the door in the poor light given off by the filthy hall light. The television is on, but that doesn't matter. Dad drinks while he watches Pawn Stars. "Thanks for the ride Mickey, I'm good. I'm gonna go out the fire escape, sleep at Christa's."

_Or Avery's._

"I'll drive you." He folds his arms, sharing my lowered tone. "You don't need to be wandering around at this time of night."

"She's around the corner." I sniff, sorting through my keys for the door one. "Go get some sleep. I appreciate the ride – seriously."

We look at each other for a moment. Neither of us say it, but we both know what he's really worried about is that my Dad will be awake in there waiting for me. But he can't be here all the time to protect me. And truth is, it's always a lot worse after he leaves. So I reach up, and give him a hug round the neck. I feel him sigh against me, and he pushes at my hair as I let him go. "Come 'round my place tomorrow eh?"

"Sure." I lie, and he knows it because he looks at me hard before he moves past me.

"Stay safe, Carrigan."

_I wish_.

I ease open the door the way bomb squads handle explosives. I stand and listen for a minute, and then carefully bunch the keys in my hand and step in. Ease shut the door, and then creep down the darkness of the hallway, dodging around the half circle of light from the living room TV. I don't look to see if he's there asleep – better to hurry.

My hand closes around the handle of my bedroom door before his voice growls behind me – slurred and dumb from liquor. "Where were you?"

"Out." I say to the door.

"_Excuse me_? You trying to be smart with me?" His heavy feet take two steps toward me.

"No, sir." The word grits against the back of my teeth. It's utterly wrong for him. It suggests class, leadership, respect. "I was working at Mickey's tonight – he had some of the Baxter boys down, needed an extra hand."

"And you thought you'd keep the cash?" He grabs my shoulder and yanks me around, slamming my back into the wall.

"No sir." I unzip my pocket in the near blackness, and from the roll yank two bills. I hold them out to him, the two hundred aching against my fingertips. Goodbye skateboard. But when he grabs them, they tare.

He lets out an animal noise and steps up, grabbing me by the Jacket and shoving be against the door. "You didn' tell meh they're wet! You been whoring around the streets? That is? You stink like shit, girl."

_So do you._

The voice whispers from the darkness into my ear, amused and oddly… languid. I've never heard the word in my life, and yet I know it as soon as it comes to me. Because the voice I hear is my own. _The f-_

I try to focus. "I was working at Mickey's, I promise. I went to the water for a bit with Christa, she pushed me in."

I have no way of seeing the fist coming. Not in Darkness like this. _But I do_. I see like broad daylight; the rolled fat of my Dad's neck, the beer stains on the shirt that doesn't quite cover his gut, the thick fingers bunched together coming at my face having abandoned my Jacket. And I shut my eyes.

A gentle breeze stirs my hair around my ears. I open my eyes, and am at once hit by vertigo. I stagger back – which is good. Staggering forward would mean a fifty story drop. My back runs into stone, and my legs give out under me. I crumble up, wrapping my arms around my head as sweat breaks out across my body. I don't last long before I spread out to vomit, the violent action wracking my body.

When it subsides a crawl a few feet off and then collapse against the gritty stones of the roof. _What the fuck, what the fuck, WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?_

And then the breeze is gone, and underneath me becomes soft. Fabric – familiar smelling, safe. Then there's a weird squeak noise. "Rachel?"

I roll onto my back as Avery rushes over from his bed, his laptop laying abandoned. He crouches down beside his clothing pile, hands hovering over me like he's not sure what to do with himself. I groan, sitting up cautiously. "So… guess what happened to me tonight?"

Avery stares at me, his head tilted, mouth open in a way that would be cute if it wasn't so funny. His short blond hair is still spiked up from the day, his blue eyes swelled up in disbelief. In the shadows of his room being lit up only by his bedside lamp, he looks like a broken Avery-in-the-box. But I don't laugh – I can't even crack a smile as I think of my voice echoing in my ears, something richer… darker.

"_Scarecrow_. You're serious?"

I nod, rubbing my face tiredly. "I didn't… know."

"You let those guys inject your with something – your two thousand bucks? Jesus, Rachel! I think Emma wants her sister alive more than she wants some new clothes!"

"My Mom's behind on rent." I look away, tugging at the hem of his baggy Gotham City Football shirt I've changed into. "She's due to be evicted. This will hold her over for this month and the next."

"And give her an excuse to spend what she saved on booze." He points out.

I wince, he sighs. He leans forward, touching my cheek. "Rachel… I'm sorry."

I nod, but I still can't look at him. He tugs at me and I climb over to him, curling up beside him as he lays back, staring at his roof. "Tell me again what he said – about Batman."

"Something about stopping everyone's perception of morality. When I asked if he meant Batman he started getting freaky." I burry my face against him, savoring the relief I find in this sanctuary. "I… I was in my house and then I wasn't. What does that even mean?"

"Teleportation?" He offers, his fingers working against my wet hair. I had a shower, after we'd calmed down.

I snort. "That sounds stupid when you say it out loud."

"It does." He agrees. "But what else would you call it."

"I evanesced."

Silence.

"Went 'poof'."

"Ah." His ribs shake as he laughs.

I frown. "What?"

"Well, you may be turned into a weapon of mass chaos, but look on the bright side – you'll never be late for class again! And no need to buy a car – think of how you'll lower fuel emissions – ow!" He shouts as I dig a finger into his side. Still I smile against the soft blue fabric of his shirt, and he feels me relax because he moves onto his side, wiggling until he's down face to face with me. "You're going to be fine, okay? I promise."

"Yeah, what could possibly go wrong with an experimental mixture running through my veins?" I roll me eyes. "I'm not stupid enough to believe we can handle this, Avery. But thanks."

"Maybe… we could find Batman?"

His suggestion hangs lonesome in the air a moment.

"Maybe." I agree, then I turn onto my other side, grabbing one of his pillows and pulling it under my head. "As for tonight… sleep would be good."

"Agreed." He yawns, stretching before wrapping an arm around my side. "By the way – you look cute in my clothes."

He yelps as I elbow him, and the last thing I remember before I fall into sleep in his low throaty laugh, and the smell of his forgotten slushy on the table beside me.


	4. Chapter 4

When I open my eyes, Avery isn't there, and for a split second I'm filled with terror that I've gone somewhere I didn't mean to. My blood hammers in my ears, threatening to drown out everything. Then I realize that I'm in his bed – it's his red blankets tangled around my legs – his crappy ratty looking Nirvana poster on the wall. I sit up, rubbing my eyes and looking around. I can hear pots and pans clanking in the kitchen, and that slides the last piece of the puzzle into place. Avery loves cooking – he watches every show the food network has to offer. But the only edible thing he's ever produced out of the kitchen is toast. His mother's home, which means Avery is asleep on the couch in the living room.

I put a hand to the collar of his shirt, which I probably shouldn't go waltzing out into the kitchen in. But as I look around, and spot my stained clothes sitting neglected in a dark corner, I remember the funky smell of sewer clinging to them.

I pull my legs out from the blankets, and tiptoe over to the door before I hesitate. When I cleaned up last night, it was pretty basic. Wash out the hair, clean the sewer stench off my skin. I probably look like a mess. Misses Jacobs pretends not to care about my background – she feels sorry for me, so she lets me stay here without complaint when it gets bad with my Dad – but the truth is she's always worried about me dragging down her son. I can't blame her really – I'm not exactly on the fast track to fame and fortune. Hell, I worry about what I do to him to. I've tried leaving him alone before even – when they moved out of the Narrows. He just got angry and insistent. Still I don't need his mom seeing me looking like I'm feeling.

The problem is that the bathroom is by the front door – which requires a dash past the kitchen.

And then it occurs to me – teleportation.

But all at once revulsion threatens to throttle me, forcing me to take a step back from the door. Because as much as these powers could mean to me, I can't get the ringing out of my ears that's haunted me all last night – that voice purring in my ear. Mine, and not mine. Powerful, alluring. Ruthless.

I take a deep breath, and open the door silently. I move down the hall, and wait until her back is turned to dart across the final stretch and into the bathroom. I shut the door what I hope is quietly and lock it. I wait for my heart to stop racing, and then go to the mirror.

Imagine looking at a mirror, and instead of seeing yourself, the reflection is someone entirely different – someone infinitely more beautiful than you could ever be. Someone who is nothing like you. Like you've been hijacked.

When I went to sleep last night, my hair was bleached so blond it was almost white, dry and crackly and short with streaks of blue and red. But the girl staring at me in horror has black, healthy hair reaching well past her shoulders. Her brows are dark and sculpted to curve perfectly around her eyes which seem to have darker longer lashes. She has none of my acne, and her eyes lack the normal bags and dark circles which have always lurked under mine. Her cheekbones seem higher, her skin… fairer. And her eyes aren't my dull green ones at all – hers are sharp dark green with gold around the pupil. There should be something wrong – dry drool trail at the corner of her mouth, rats nest hair, bloodshot eyes, _anything_. But there isn't. Her hair falls in casually perfect curls, lips are full and devoid of drool, and her eyes are clear and alert, even in their fear.

I turn on the tap, and dunk my face in the freezing water over and over until my eyes sting and my face prickles from the cold. Only then do I towel off the moisture, and stand waiting for my eyes to clear. When they do, I see the girl giving me a hopeful stare, which at once turns to disappointment.

I jump as there's a knock at the door. "Rachel, sweetie, breakfast is all ready. Avery's up – you better hurry if you want to eat."

"Thanks." I keep my voice light and cheerful somehow. "Be right there."

I should have known she saw me running – she has the eyes of a hawk. So I look back to the girl, her face a twisted expression with lips pressed flat together.

_You can do this. You just have to kill a few hours of daylight, and then hunt down the guy in a big black cape you're supposed to be enemies with. Simple._

I take a rattley breath in through my nose and then lick my lips. _Do pretty girls lick their lips? I don't think they do – too self-conscious of an action – _

_ Focus._

When I open the bathroom door, I hear the screech of a fork against a plate. After a moment Avery speaks. "Yeah, we'll probably go see a movie or something – try and get her mind off her Dad. It got ugly last night I think."

"Is she hurt? I could check her."

"I think she ran out before he could hurt her. Thanks though, Mom."

Misses Jacobs is a nurse at the new Gotham General. She was working the day the Joker bombed the hospital – luckily she was on one of the buses that got out unhindered. Avery had nightmares for weeks. I take a minute to work up my nerve, and then I enter the kitchen. Misses Jacobs is just drinking coffee, but Avery has a mouth full of food when they look up. Misses Jacobs pauses, her brows raising, but Avery chokes on his food, diverting the attention at once. He manages to clear his windpipe, but before he can speak he sees the look in my eye and changes direction entirely. "Did you brush your hair?"

"Yeah." I smile tensely, sitting down in front of a plate of pancakes and sausage. "It's nicer after the dying – I kinda want to keep it that way, you know?"

"You look fabulous, Rachel!" Misses Jacobs says, and I can see she means it honestly. She smiles. "When did you have all this done?"

"A few days ago." Lying comes easy to me. "My grandma finally sent me my birthday money, and said to spend it on something that would make me happy, so… new look."

"I liked the streaks." Avery pushes one of the little rolls of meat around his plate as he inspects me.

"Avery!" His mother hisses. Is she scared I might rethink the newer 'polished' me? She rolls her eyes and laughs. "He's wrong, Rachel. This really suits you. You look… grown up."

"Thanks." I'm surprised to find I mean it. This whole thing terrifies me – having someone say it's not such a bad thing makes me wonder if it really isn't. We don't talk about it further, and halfway through breakfast her pager goes off, which quickly leads to her departure.

I'm putting the plates in the dishwasher when Avery comes back from locking the door.

"So… this happened last night?" He gestures to my face.

I nod miserably, shutting the washer door and leaning on the counter. "I look like I belong on Mean Girls. I look like a plastic!"

He laughs at my distress, taking my hands and pulling me to him. "You do not look like a plastic." He sooths, which does nothing to fool me. "Have you thought about what you want to do."

"No." I mutter, leaning my forehead against his chest. "Kinda. I should deal with the money – Emma has her dance lessons right now, I could save Mom the trip, pick her up myself and go shopping. Stop by Aunt Tracy's on the way home, pay the rent on the way out…"

"I meant about -"

"Batman." I finish for him, peeking up into his eyes slowly. He looks worriedly down at me. "I know… it just – it feels like running into trouble. _Again_."

"He's Batman, Rachel. _He's the good guy_."

"And I'm not." I counter, frowning as I see the argument building. "Avery – I'm the daughter of an ex-con who likes to beat his kid. I take needles for money. Something in my veins in genetically engineered to kill Gotham's hero. Running to him without more information seems… imprudent."

"Imprudent?" Avery raises an eyebrow. "Why are you talking like that?"

"I don't know!" I snap, and pull back out of his arms. I glance at the clock on the oven as I head to his room. "But I need to go. Right now, I just want to spoil my sister and forget for a minute that I'm completely fucked."

"Rachel, this isn't the kind of thing you set aside to let stew for a while." Avery follows after me, standing at his door as I go to the corner and pick up my ball of wet mess, tossing it in a plastic bag on the ground and then grabbing it along with my jacket which is sitting on the dresser. "You need to make a plan and follow it. If you don't, it will only get worse for you."

"Because you know all about it?" I whirl around and snarl, sudden spitting hot rage burning me. "You live in a nice apartment with a mother who wants you, never having to worry about rent or clothing money, or anything. Avery you haven't got the slightest inclination what to do when shit hits the fan. That's my area. And from experience – running and dodging works just fine. Now get out of my way!" I yell as I try to leave and he blocks the door.

"Rachel -" He holds out a hand cautiously, watching me wearily. "You need to calm down and think. I know you're scared -"

"What do you know about fear?" I sneer, and that's the moment I realize I'm not the one talking. This is the voice that isn't mine and is. My body stalks up to Avery, hips swaying and fists curling. "Hmm? Go ahead Avery, explain to me. Fear Daddy's not coming home?"

He lets out a little puff of air, eyes widening. I gasp and shrink back as my body is instantly returned to me, puppet strings cut. I drop the bag, covering my mouth as I watch the hurt spreading all through this beautiful boy who only wants to help me. I want to be anywhere but here.

The carpet disappeared from under me, and someone rams right into me forcing me to stagger. My bare feet are stepped on by a pair of dress shoes as the first man apologies without stopping. "Sorry, didn't see you."

I wince and look around at the crowded Gotham sidewalk, the thrum of the city all around with honking cars and clicking shoes and general life. I look up miserably at the building in front of me – clean nice brick with a sign over the narrow glass door reading in elegant print, '_The Sherry Lynne Dance Studio_'. It's a place I loath – mostly because they all know I'm from the Narrows, and love to look at me to see what the newest fashion faux pas is. They're going to love the hobbit footwear. I take a deep breath, my eyes blocked my images of Avery's hurt face, and head into the studio. 


	5. Chapter 5

The studio smells like a cosmetic counter and floor wax, and the front waiting room is everything elegant that Mom can't afford. Emma's lessons are paid for by Mormor – mother's mother, it's a Swedish thing – who has tried a hundred times to take me and Emma away to live with her. Lawyers are reluctant to touch cases that involve the children of mob thugs – by the time the Dent act came into power, Mormor had given up and settled for taking us away on a road trip once a year.

The reception at the desk is immaculately dressed – a smart black blazer overtop of a white blouse. He skin is milky without being pale, and when I come up she beams at me for a moment before she works out who I am. Then she looks almost annoyed – like I tricked her. "Hello…" she says thinly with a smile like the ripples on a slop bucket. "Emma's sister right?" She knows. "She should be out shortly."

"Obviously."

It's comes out of my mouth involuntarily, a reply in the same practiced syrup tone. Her brows raise, and I turn and walk on, covering my mouth when I'm out of sight. I stop halfway down the hall and lean against the wall, the lighthearted music coming from the room at the end feeling strangely mocking. I shut my eyes, drawing and exhaling a breath slowly. I've got this. I have to have this, I'm going in to see Emma. She needs me to be smiling and chipper and utterly problem free. I can't let that voice anywhere near her.

I shrug on my jacket, touching the money for a moment and thinking of the sewer. What had Crane said about these powers? Nothing – and that was the problem. He said what they were for, but he said nothing about what they were. I feel the blossom of doubt unfurl in my chest, stretching out thorny vines as it does. Maybe running's not going to cut it this time.

"Rachel?"

I glance up from the floor as I see Emma standing by the door to her studio, dressed in her pink outfit, hair up in a bun and ballet shoes in hand. I take one look at the unearned hero worship in my sister's eyes, and know at once that I need to deal with this. But not right now. For now I put on my grin and throw open my arms, and brace myself as she comes running into them squealing happily.

"Hey, Bug." I laugh, lifting her up into my arms and spinning her. I don't even notice the other's leaving – mothers and daughters looking askance at me like they expect Emma to cry out for saving from the homeless girl.

I shift her more comfortably as she lets go of my neck to look at me, grabbing a fistful of my hair as she does. "You look pretty." She approves. "Are you just taking me home?"

"Of course not." I snort, carrying her back out into the lobby and down the stairs. "You and me are going to hang out all day until you're absolutely sick of me. We're going to get clothes, and ice-cream, and we can even go feed the ducks if you want."

"Nah, that's okay." Emma shrugs as we started out onto the street, releasing my hair so I can put her onto the ground. "I'd like ice-cream though."

"Okay, I'm just going to call Mom quick, see if she want's any." I keep smiling as I guide my sister by the hand over to a payphone. I fish a quarter out of my pocket and shove it in, then dial and wait as it rings. Mom's voice has a sluggish tone as she picks up.

"What?"

"Mom's, it's me."

"Oh hey, Baby." She softens, letting out a sleepy chuckle. "Thought you were the landlord again. What's up?"

"Emma and I are going for ice-cream now that she's out of dance." I ignore her groan. She didn't even remember Emma wasn't home. It's bad today. "Mom we're going to spend the day together, then I'm going to stop by Tracy's. I'll give her the money you owe her, and I'm going to see if Emma can stay there tonight okay?"

Mom murmurs something I can't hear and then sighs. "Okay Baby. Hey shouldn't you be at school?"

"It's Saturday Mom. Bye."

I hang up as she starts to say love you, all the while keeping my face strictly happy. I look down at Emma, who's staring at my feet. "Why aren't you wearing shoes?"

"I got tired of the ones I own. I thought you could help me pick out another pair."

When she doesn't smile I bend down and tickle her, and that revives the life to her quickly. I carry her giggling down three blocks to Georgie's, and I hold her up so she can pick which flavor she wants then order cookie dough for myself. We sit in one of the massive red and white booths, and I listen as she tells me all about dance class, and school, and a picture she drew, and even a homeless cat she found and fed milk. It sounds stupid, but the longer I listen to her the more my body relaxes. My little sister keeps me grounded, and I'm relaxed by the affirmation that she's still happy. When most of her boo boo bubble is melted and she decides she's finished, we go shopping. After picking up some red converses and some socks for me, I buy her a couple new shirts with stupidly corny lines on them that she loves, a couple pink skirts, some new shoes, and a springtime jacket so she can take off her winter one which is smothering her.

It's a perfect day. Mostly.

Midafternoon I piggyback Emma to Tracy's, and as I'm carrying her up the stairs, Emma suddenly lays her head against my shoulder. "Rachel?"

"Mmm?" I ask, mostly focused on keeping balanced with the bags on my arms and her on my back.

"Mom's not feeling good again, isn't she?"

I don't answer right away, but pause on the next landing. I put down the bags, and lower her to the ground so I can look at her. I frown, kneeling in front of her. "Has she done anything, Bug?"

She doesn't look at me, but shrugs. I watch as she begins to play with the hem of her new jacket – something she does when she's scared to tell. I touch her arm, making her look me in the eye. "Emma, how did you get to class this morning?"

"Sammy's mom drove us." She says quietly, looking back to the fabric in her small fingers. "Mom got mad."

"Emma, what happened?" I ask, urgency creeping into my voice.

Emma bites her lower lip, then pulls back her jacket and tugs up her shirt to reveal a brown splotch on her hip. My eyes widen, and I must fail at hiding my anger because she speaks more quickly. "She didn't mean to. She didn't want me to go, and she was tugging my arm, so I pulled back and fell onto the hedgehog."

"The doorstop?" I offer almost silently, not letting her cover up the mark as she tries. "Emma, why didn't you tell me earlier?"

"Because I knew you were going to get mad at Mom, and she didn't mean to Rachel – it was just an accident, and remember people don't get in trouble for accidents?"

"How many accidents have happened lately?"

"None."

"Emma?"

"None!" She insists, shoving her shirt down over my hand, her face screwing up determinedly. "Mom just wants me to stay. I'm her little Rabbit."

I nod, letting her side go. "Come on."

After gathering the bags we walk up in silence, Emma pouting and going slower. I knock on Tracy's door, and after a moment it opens, the chain snapping to attention as a round face with big blue eyes and frazzled brown hair appears. Tracy looks at the two of us, then smiles cautiously. "Rachel, Emma! I didn't realize you were coming."

No kidding. There's a reason I didn't call.

"Hey Auntie." Emma smiles a little, and I ruffle her hair.

"Hi Aunt Tracy. Can we come in?"

"Of course, of course!" She laughs, shutting the door and jingling open the chain before swinging it wide. Emma goes trotting in.

Tracy waits till Emma is in the living room to look at me darkly. "You need her to stay I suppose?"

I put the clothes off to the side, folding my arms. "Mom didn't even remember she had ballet today. She doesn't know what day it is. I know this isn't convenient for you, but I can't bring her home with me, can I?"

"Maybe you should have used the money you spent on yourself to get a hotel room." Tracy looks me over critically. "Look, Rachel, it's not that I'm not sympathetic, but you and Emma aren't my kids. It was my sister's choice to have children – and I've helped more than my share. I'm still waiting on -"

"Your money." I finish, reaching into my pocket. I feel her gaze sharpen as she watches me unfold the roll of cash and start counting out the bills. It's like waving a stake in front of the lion den. "She owes you five hundred right?"

"Seven." Tracy leans forward to watch the count. She doesn't flinch as I look up at her darkly. "She was short last month to."

I shove the money at her, and she takes it. "Where'd you get the cash?"

I smile grimly. "Not drugs, if that's what you're thinking." Not strictly true, but she doesn't care. Tracy nods stiffly. "Emma can stay here a three days, but I go back to work on Wednesday, so I can't drive her to school after that."

"Alright." I nod, hoping that'll be enough. I walk into the living room to find Emma sitting on the couch playing with one of Tracy's millions of snow globes. I smile at her and she looks at me unhappily as I kneel down in front of her. "Alright, I've got to get going now Bug. But you're going to stay with Auntie Tracy for the next couple days, till Mom feels better. Okay?"

"I don't want to stay here." She whines. "I left my coloring books at home, and Sneaky. He'll be lonely without me."

Sneaky is her stuffed animal, a leopard she likes to sleep with.

"I'll try and bring him tomorrow okay?" I touch her cheek, and tweak her nose to restart her smile. "It's going to be just fine here. You can watch TV, and I'm sure there's some pens around for you to draw lots of pictures. But I need you to be good for Auntie Tracy, can you do that for me Bug?"

She nods, and then tosses aside the snow globe to hug me tightly around the neck. I hold her just as tight, and stroke her hair as she sniffles. "I'll be back soon, okay? Me and Sneaky."

"I want you to stay." She mutters.

"I wish I could." I confide, and then reluctantly disentangle myself from her. I clean the tears off her cheeks, and hug Tracy goodbye for Emma's sake. I manage to hold everything in until I get to the street, and then I duck into one of the many alleys of the Narrows where I slide to the ground and sit for a while, clutching my head and breathing deep to keep back the childish tears. Eventually I get up and wander aimlessly, trying unsuccessfully to work up the cool to go visit my Mom. By the time I give up, it's just starting to get dark. I come back out onto the main streets, trying to get my bearings.

I'm just about to the street corner to get the name when I hear a voice hoot, "Hey suga', whachu doin all by your lonesome."

I blame it on the emotional shit kicking of the day, but I make the mistake of looking back. A couple of guys stand at the mouth of the alley across the street, passing around a cigarette and eyeing me up. I do what I always do at these moments.

"Looking for someone for Mickey to punch back to last Tuesday, you volunteering?"

Usually dropping Mickey's name is enough. Everyone knows him. But these guys are a particular brand of stupid, and guffawing like the exemplary lackeys they are, they cross the street, heading towards me. My mind shoots to several hundred still sitting in my pocket, and I feel a shiver of cold roll through me as I continue to stand my ground as they circle me.

"She's got a mouth on her." One of the other's – a guy with brown oily hair hanging around his jaw – smirks. "We could break it."

I look around, noting that they've left the alley unguarded. The bastards want a chase. Fine.

"Hey fellas?" I feel my lips bend into a imitation of the smile they gave the receptionist. "Tell me… are you afraid of the dark?"


	6. Chapter 6

My converses slap the pavement as I dart down the alley, the hooting coming from the guys chasing behind me. Adrenaline drugs my system into a high of unnecessary fear and exhilaration. I can teleport – there's no reason to be scared of these assholes. But some small part of me is.

_Okay, maybe it's time to poof away now?_ My nagging logic begs from the back of my mind.

_Or maybe you should turn around._

My veins jetstream ice through my veins and I my foot catches on the curb. The ground flies up and my elbows jar against the pavement as my arms leap to the defense of my face. Cheers from the boys as they slow and circle around me, jeering as I clamber to my feet, looking around at their faces which have turned uglier in the shadows from the streetlamp a few paces away. I look past them to the corner where I can make out a nightwalker, but she quickly scuttles away. There are cars all over and people quickly moving away from windows.

So much for solidarity amongst neighbors, huh?

I hear the first guy as he moves forward, taking a grab at me while I have my back turned. I weave out of the way, but that brings me closer to Grease-ball, who grabs me, pinning my arms to my sides.

_Your way isn't working… how about mine?_

I thrash against Grease-ball as one of the others comes towards me, grinning. So I kick him in the face.

He screams and staggers back, and I squirm as the other guys laugh.

"We got ourselves a scrapper!"

"You alright there boy'o?"

"I think it's time you put the lady down."

The last one is distinct from the others – flat and full of disapproval. We all look around, and that's when I spot him – sitting on the edge of an awning for the Chinese Laundromat. The suit is difficult to make out in the dark at first, but the moment I strain to make it out the dark clears again. It's like all the pictures – body armor and yet… not. It's composed of different lightweight hardened materials, the underneath a mesh fabric sealed over with heavier duty almost plastic like plates where they won't interfere with mobility. Most of the suit is black, the shapes of the armor bits made both esthetically pleasing and practical to cover the vital parts. At the shoulders and dipping down to a point on the chest was a strip of dark blue with the black bird symbol placed in the center. Where Batman has a mask that covered all of his head and most of his face, Nightwing's suit ends at the neck and his eyes are covered by a black mask whose shape closely resembled that of a bat or a bird. His hair hangs around his face casually, black and just barely too long to be called short, not quite shoulder length.

I see the guys around me exchange looks. Oh, so there is some flicker of sense in the empty caverns of their skulls?

My lips flatten together as I feel the anger begin to roil around inside my skull, leaking down into my whole body. Oh, so they see Nightwing and suddenly their boy scouts? How many other people have they hurt – any one of them could be replaced with Dad, they're all exactly like him. How come they aren't afraid of girls, because we're easy targets? I could be just as dangerous as Nightwing. I _am_ just as dangerous as him – I'm the weapon of Gotham's fucking apocalypse!

The arms around me loosen, and I feel a strange tugging inside of my chest.

_We can make them regret. We can make them tremble._ The voice whispers in my ear.

It feels like standing on the brink of a chasm, crouching down and staring into the pit. Even tossing a stone in, there's no way of really knowing just how far down it goes. But the truth is… I want to jump. The more I look at their upturned faces, the more I see my father – fat and slovenly and repulsive. This power inside me – whatever, whoever she is… she can make these bastards pay. She can make them squeal.

_Go get em._ I think, and for the first time I welcome that darkness in.

Heat pulsates through my skin, and my lips curve into a smile that's somehow sexy and terrifying at the same time. My hand rises to touch the arm holding me, and I see my fingers curl around the exposed wrist. The man stiffens, and the veins close to my hand begin to darken from blue to black. I turn round to look at him, his eyes wide and fixed on mine. I let go of his wrist to turn fully, and then I lay my hands gently on his cheeks, tilting my head.

"You didn't answer my question, Lover." My voice murmurs, the black spreading out through his face. "Are you scared of the dark?"

"N-no." He splutters, and I feel him trying unsuccessfully to break eye contact with me. I've got him trapped now. He's all mine to play with.

"What are you doing?" Nightwing's voice is distant as I laugh softly.

"You should be."

I sink my nails into the man's temples, and it's like his veins are being pumped full of the same mixture in mine. They bulge up against his skin, and his eyes roll back in his head as he screams.

"Jesus Christ!" One of the others curses.

"Get her off!"

One of my hands moves off Grease-ball to swat aside the large body that comes barreling at me. I barely touch him, but he goes flying backwards like a semi hit him. The guy whose nose I kick runs for it, but the other three come in to their friend's defense. I draw my fingers out of the man's head, and I realize they're elongated – black and almost talon like with their sharp edges. I turn to face them as Grease-ball hits the deck, and I don't try to back away as they dive for me. They travel through my body like smoke, slamming into each other as I move away, entirely black where I've become impalpable. Even as I step back, the darkness spreads through my whole body until I'm a single flawless form again – my hair floating around me like I'm underwater. I raise a hand for my own appraisal as the men try to stand, along with the one I punched.

"Stop – whatever you're doing."

Nightwing is on the ground – I somehow missed that. He's eyeing me uncertainly, holding out a hand. "They're down."

"Are they?" My brow raises as one of the guys from the dog pile manages to get standing. "Doesn't look like it to me."

"Why do I feel like it's them I should be protecting?" He frowns at me, trying to gauge what my trick is.

_Leave him alone._ I warn the voice.

"You fellas don't like killing, do you?" I tilt my head again, and give off a coy smile.

His face hardens. "No."

"Then that's probably why."

I step out of the streetlight and suddenly I'm behind the guy. My body stands perfectly still until Nightwing finds me, and then my hands jerks forward.

_NO!_ I scream silently, but it's useless as my body lifts the man up screaming all the way, five black points sticking through the other side of his chest. Nightwing's eyes widen. The dark laughs. The men scatter. And the fingers retract. The guy falls coughing to the ground, scrabbling uselessly at the leaking holes in his chest. I step back, the blackness falling off me like dust as my color returns and my hair falls to my shoulders. I raise the fingers of that hand to my face and yank it back as they leaves behind dots of red.

"Oh shit." I breathe, shaking my head. "What did you do?"

_We,_ comes the singsong reply. _You're the one who let me out._

_ To scare them!_ I think back. _This was your fault._

_It's not Hyde's fault Jekyll lets him out._

"I'm going to need to take you in."

His voice his steady, soothing, but I can see the genuine shock in the way he comes towards me. His batons are out, not threatening but prepared. I take a step back instinctively. "Where?"

"Well, I'm guessing a normal cell isn't going to cut it."

"To Batman?"

He frowns, then nods. "Yeah. Now are you going to come along quietly or is this about to get tough."

_Oh you have got to be kidding me. You want to go with tall dark and boy scout? _

I feel that tug in my chest again – this time much more insistent. I take a sharp breath in, clutching my chest. "Knock me out."

"What?"

"She's trying to get out. If I'm unconscious- "

He understands and swings in one simple instant. But even that is too long. My body jerks back away from the club and swing up a leg, clipping the side of his face and sending him whirling.

"She'll take a rain check on the tour." My voice tells him. I duck under his other baton but the first one comes in again, ramming up into my chest. I gasp, but as I lean forward my hand slams onto his exposed neck. He lets out a sharp clipped yell and black spreads through him and I straighten, panting with narrowed eyes. "I could kill you right here, Bird Boy."

_No. No please don't – please._

My body sighs in mild disappointment. "But she doesn't want me to. So I'll have to come up with some other punishment."

I move closer, a wicked grin raising on my lips. "I know."

I move onto tiptoe, hovering my lips just above his as he stands pinned in place. He's a much better toy than Grease-ball, who's still lying on the ground. I let out a slow, long breath, and black smoke trickles from my lips into his. I watch – internally in horror, externally in delight – as his eyes turn black. Entirely black – iris, whites, all of it. When my voice comes out, it's suddenly two voices – mine and his. "Tell Batman… when you see him? Tell him to come out and play."

He nods, and I remove my hand from his neck. He crumples to the ground and I shake my head, stepping over him and onward into the alley. "He's not much use, is he?" The darkness asks me pointed. "Two people dead, and he hardly does a thing to stop us. I think he likes you. Maybe I should have killed him after all."

_Leave him alone. We want his help!_

"No, Rachel, you do." I sigh again, flipping my hair as I come out onto a street again. "I think you aren't giving this a fair shot. I mean seriously – did you see what we did to those guys? They're just the beginning, Kitten. From now on, you don't need to be scared of anyone. Just point… I'll shoot."

_We aren't shooting anybody!_

My body cocks a hip to one side, placing a hand on it. "Oh sweetie, we have got to get you loosened up! I'm not going anywhere. So you just, take a breather. And when you're calmed down, we'll talk."

Darkness falls over me, and I'm hit with a sudden heavy drowsiness. My body staggers as I try desperately to grab hold of the control again. But I'm like Atlas trying to hold up the sky. The weight smothers me, and I go under into nothingness.


	7. Chapter 7

I open my eyes, and stare at a crack running along white ceiling. Nausea rises up in my throat and I flip over onto my side quickly as I screw shut my eyes, determined not to barf. I hold my stomach until it passes, and then slowly I open my eyes again. It takes a minute to recognize my own room. There's not much in it – a few books on the shelf I don't like, a desk with a lamp which is turned on, some clothes on the stained and wrinkled carpet. Nothing of myself. Nothing I can't grab in a minute and be out the door with, anyway.

Push myself up to a sitting position, suddenly aware of the maroon wool trencher I'm wearing. There's an emerald green scarf around my neck, and I have on a long flowing olive shirt and black tights. My eyes go to my feet as I try to move off the bed and they catch. I narrow my gaze at the pair of heels – also black, apart from the ruby red translucent heel.

It takes the wheels a moment to get going in my brain, but as soon as the locks turn into place another moment of nausea hits me.

_Her_.

I notice a glossy red blackberry sitting on my beside table and click it on, staring for a moment at the name on the display. _Rachel Carrigan_, it reads, overtop of a picture of me and some guy in some place with poor lighting. I continue to stare dumbfounded for a minute at the guy, kissing my neck in the picture so I can only make out brown short hair and slightly tanned skin. I have utterly no memory of this.

I flip to the texts but they've either been erased or I haven't used any yet. I go to the contacts. There's only one:

_Name: For a Good Time Call_

I glare at the number then go to the calendar. I stare unseeingly at the date. _Tuesday?_

That's when I realize it's utterly silent in the house. The hairs all over my body raise and I look towards the door. My voice is dry and feeble as I call out, "Dad?"

There's no answer, no sounds of someone shifting on a squeaky mattress. She had my body for two whole days. How much does she know about my Dad? Everything I know?

I push the heels off my feet then move across the room. I pause as I notice a new mirror put up beside the window. Its frame is carved golden filigree, and written in violent red lipstick across it:

_That was fun, huh? We'll have to do it again sometime._

_ XOXO_

I reach into my pocket, feeling the lipstick tube. I shake my head, then with the blackberry in hand I go to my room and ease open the door. It's while I'm standing in the total black of the hallway that the front door lock jiggles. Instinctively I dart to the side and press my back to the wall, listening as the door swings open.

Two sets of footsteps enter, and one guy sighs. "So we still haven't found the daughter yet?"

"Not the older one, Sir. He had a younger daughter living with his wife across the other side of the Narrows, they've both been informed. Mother didn't seem to awfully concerned that her child was missing. You think the older daughter might be the one who did this?"

"If she did, I wouldn't blame her. Sounds like this guy was a piece of work. Neighbors aren't saying anything. But no – this is way beyond a single teenager. This has gotta be gang related – he used to work as muscle. I'd say he pissed someone off… this is the work of more than one person. I'm guessing the girl saw something and ran – not much chance of a ransom. Or she's going to turn up dead somewhere."

They've moved into the living room. I get down into a crouch and creep to the corner, peeking around it to look at the door. It's closed, but I could probably get out of it before the two in the living room find me. They sound like cops. They sound like they're talking about my dead father. My mind trails to the fire escape – probably how she got in last night.

_You better not have killed him_. I think, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath. She doesn't reply. I don't even consider teleporting – I'm not doing anything to help let that thing in.

And the truth is, I need to see what the cops are looking at. I need to know what she's done. Because it means I've done it to.

So I take off the jacket and the scarf and stash them on the ground, then move through the dark towards the archway leading into the living room. I draw in a silent breath, working up the will to look. When I do, I find two figures – one tall, the other short and stout – standing side by side looking down at the carpet in front of the TV. The short broader one is dressed in the dark blue of Gotham's police. He's African American – I recognize him from around the school. He comes to help when a weed stash is found in a kid's locker, things like that. He's one of several who patrol this area. He's not a bad as the others – most police in the Narrows are crooked as well as mean. Not this guy though. Officer… I can't recall his name.

The other one is dressed in dress pants and a wool blazer style trench coat. I can see gold cufflinks peeking out on crisp white cuffs – some fancy detective who's in the wrong side of town. His black hair is spiked and I can smell his cologne from where I crouch.

I'm stalling, examining them. I dig my nails into the wall and just look.

I can't help the noise that comes out of my mouth, a mix between a gasp and a scream.

There's blood smeared in the crude impression of a butterfly, then dragged in a long trail towards the window. That's where it's worst – spray everywhere wetting the old peeling wallpaper. The window has been papered over, but I can see the shadow of what glass remains in the shattered frame, the front of which has snapped off leaving a splintered mess of red wood.

The guys whirl around and look at me and I leap up – bolting for the door. I wasn't banking on these emotions clouding my brain like cottonballs. I stagger and fall against the door where I collapse, clutching the handle as I hunch over and retch. The cop and the detective rush out, but where the detective hesitates the officer doesn't. He hurries over, pulling his jacket off as he stops behind me. He speaks slowly, calmly. "It's alright now – you're alright."

The fabric crinkles as he drapes it over my shoulders, resting a hand on my shoulder as I my body finally accepts that there's nothing in my stomach and dissolves into shivers. "You're alright miss."

"He's dead, right?" I stare at the chipped wooden door.

"Yes." The cop answers when the detective makes and 'Uhm' noise. "I'm officer Martin. And we're going to catch the guys who did it. Alright?"

"Yeah." I laugh bitterly, letting go of the door. "Because that happens in the Narrows."

"The law stands here like everywhere else Miss Carrigan." The detective finds his tongue. He must be new – that's why he's working cases here. "Now we'll take you down to the station, call your mother for you. Then we'll ask you a couple questions and you can go home."

"This is my home." I remind him. "You mean I can go to her house."

"Let's just get you on your feet to start with." The cop suggests, standing. I feel him extend his hand, waiting. I ignore it and get up myself, pulling his jacket off and offering it to him as I turn around.

"Let me grab some stuff."

He nods, and I move past him without looking at the detective, going into the hallway and scooping the jacket and scarf off the floor. I go into my room and look around, eyeing the shoes then going over to my closet. I open it up and look to the ground. My heart sinks. The pair of red converses sit neatly alongside a row of pumps and boots and strappy glittery sandles, but all _my_ shoes are gone. Along with all my clothes. I grab one of the purses arranged on the dresser in the closet and stuff some clothes randomly into it. I put on some socks and then the converses, and am about to go when the detective speaks from my doorway.

"Friend of yours?"

I look over sharply, eyeing him. Now from the front, I can see he's actually quite handsome. For some reason, that makes me hate him. I follow his gesture to the mirror, and feel a nervous flip through my stomach. "No."

"Huh." He nods, and watches as I shoulder the purse and frown at him. "So who wrote it?"

"How should I know? I haven't been home since Friday – I climbed into through the fire escape." I said dryly. "Probably some girl my Dad paid to come over. Maybe they slept in my bed. The springs are broken in his."

"He pay girls to come over often?" The detective didn't blink.

"I thought you weren't allowed to interrogate minors without their parents?"

"Do you need to be interrogated?"

"Wow." I laugh, looking to the roof. "I just walked in to find out my Dad's dead, and you want to play bad cop right now?"

"That's just it." He folds his arms. "You don't seem to upset. Surprised, yeah. Disgusted. But not upset."

"Try being someone's punching bag for seventeen years." I reply. "I've wished him dead a hundred times. I just never wanted to see it."

"You know, most people wouldn't admit to wanting a murder victim killed."

"Well then, I must not be like most people." I walked over and look at him expectantly. "And I don't see the point in lying about what you already know."

He raised his brows, but stepped back to let me pass. I shook my head, and didn't look the officer in the eye as he held the door open for me. We all went down the stairs in silence, and as I stepped out onto the street I found myself oddly glad for the shriek of old breaks and the shouting from windows that was the soundtrack of the Narrows.

I followed the officer over to the police car, and tried to smile when again he held the door for me. "Thanks." I murmured, stepping off the curb. Just before I got in I looked across the street, and that was when I froze. I stared at the face across the street, messy black hair and dark eyes. The not-cop from Friday watches me back, his face worried.

"Miss Carrigan? Are you alright?"

I blink, glancing at the detective who then follows my gaze. The not-cop has turned his back now, and is walking away. He grabs my arm and I feel a sudden twinge making me wince.

"I'm _fine_." I lie, pulling free my arm and climb in. I put my bag beside me on the crack and tattered seat, rubbing my now stinging arm and staring at the retreating back as they get in. As their doors, shut a get a sudden blood cooling thought. My eyes go to the door, devoid of a handle or way out. My eyes snap the to the grated screen as the detective sighs and sticks the keys into the ignition. "Detective, what did you say your name was again?"

He pauses, the muscles in his neck tensing. Officer Martin looks to him, but he doesn't see the gun coming. The bullet shatters the cop and the window behind him. I scream and duck. My hand grips into the bag beside me and think _go_.

I look, but the car remains around me. I realize my tongue is tingling and the ends of my fingers, and think of my stinging arm. The wheels of the car squeal off the pavement and lurch away from the curb jetting out into street on which people are running for cover. I try to picture a place, any place.

Then I think of her, phasing through the men leaping at us. If this guy is working with Scarecrow, if they know about my sister…

_Help._ I think. _Help me – go ahead, do what you have to._

But it's only me inside my head.


	8. Chapter 8

"Don't try anything." The detective – if he even is one – warns as we speed through the Narrows, heading south. "You've got a drug running through your system to stop your powers from working."

"Thanks tips." I mutter from the floor where I've huddled, out of his direct sight as I try to form a plan. Keep him talking is as far as I've gotten. "So where are we going?"

"To see Crane. It wasn't a real surprise no missing report came out for you, but then your picture showed up on the news after your daddy got torn to shreds… I hear that was you?"

"Probably." I feel the stiff form of the phone in my pocket and freeze. Quickly I add, "I don't know – I get blackouts. When that happens, people die. Is officer-"

"He's dead." The man cuts across the question. "As a doornail. I hear you died too."

"Yeah." I slip the phone into my hand, and look at the single number on the contact list, then type in 911 as I talk. "It's no big deal coming back. But he isn't. You killed him."

"Well, can't have anyone knowing I took you, see. I've got a future ahead of me."

I cover the speaker of the phone with my thumb as someone picks up. "So we're going back to the sewers?"

"You maybe be, but I sure as hell am not. I'm just dropping you at the meeting point."

"They'll kill me."

"Probably, but like you said, it's no big deal."

I shut my eyes, breathing deep. The tingling has moved up into my arms and started in my feet. I feel heavy, like running would be almost impossible. "Please just let me go."

He chuckles. "Oh kid, I hope you don't think _that_ would work."

And then I'm slammed against the car door, head cracking against it as the whole vehicle is forced off course in a scream of tires and warping metal. The detective curses just before we ram into the car parked on the sidewalk, but for some reason I can't make a sound.

It's all very quick. Sandwiched between to hunks of metal the front buckles and the windshield shatters. The detective goes silent. I sit, staring at the crack along the opposite window as we come to a halt. And then that door swings open, and the Not-Cop comes climbing in.

"Come on, we gotta go." He tells me, offering a hand as I stare at him. When I don't move, he shouts, "Come _on_."

I struggle to push myself up, looking into the front. The detective is breathing – he hit his head on the wheel though, and it's bleeding. I look past to the street sign at the corner, and look around for the phone I didn't realize I dropped. I pick it up and say, "Corner of twenty second and Marksdale." Then hang up. The guy climbs out, and steps back as I do.

The nausea rises up again and I bend over, clutching the wrinkled frame of the trunk as I let out a groan.

"Hey," his voice is suddenly a lot softer, and he puts a hand on my back. "Are you alright? Did they hurt you?"

"He drugged me." I murmur, keeping my eyes closed as I try to focus on not barfing. "Did you just hit me with a car?"

"Tecnically I hit the car you were in." He admits, a smile in his voice. "He drugged you?"

"Who _are _you?" I demand, opening my eyes as the nausea ebbs away. I stand, and his hand drops from the small of my back.

"Dick Grayson." He's smirking slightly, but his eyes are worried. They're focused on my nose, oddly. I bring a hand up and realize it's wet - blood must be trickling out. I wipe it quickly. I've never had a nosebleed before.

"And do you normally go around T-boning co-workers?" I demand, wiping again in annoyance as my nose continues to leak.

"A friend said to look out for you." He stops smiling. "Says you're in some kind of trouble."

I freeze, staring at him. "Friend, huh?"

"That guy, he's detective Jason O'Brien. He's been in the mob's pocket since the they retook Gotham – but he's also a known associate of Jonathan Crane, who rumor has it is holed up in the sewers somewhere. So I'm guessing that's where you two were headed. I'm guessing it wasn't mob that killed your dad, either."

"Emma." Her name pops out of my mouth. Crane knows who I am. Crane knows about my sister. "Emma – we need to get my sister."

"Hold on, you're not looking too good. Right now, I think I need to get you to my friend." Dick tries to grab my arm but I dodge around him. I try to run past but the pavement rocks under my feet and I go down hard. And suddenly I'm coughing, but this is more intense than clearing a blocked windpipe or a cold. It feels like I'm coughing up nails, tearing the soft flesh of my throat as they go. My hands cover my mouth and are instantly wet with spray. I bring them back as I fall onto my side, and realize that it's not blood coming out but black gew. Maybe it is my blood.

"Rachel!" Dick picks me up around my waist. "Hey – shit. We're getting you help, I'll send someone to get your sister."

"Emma!" I cough out, spattering black on the pavement. Black oozes from my nose, and a pounding headache springs up. It feels like my body's turning against me. My insides burn. I screw my eyes shut tight, and with everything I have left I call out into my brain, _Help me damn it! Emma's in danger!_

_Emma_. The dark voice echos, and for the first time I hear her panic. I'm shocked by the relief I feel at her voice. _Get him off us – I'll help you get to her. Then we need to get us help._

"How?" I murmur, and another large cough brings up a glob of black.

"Alfred?" Dick is on the phone. "Alfred I'm at the corner of twenty second and Marksdale in the Narrows. I need you to come – quickly. I found her, but she's sick. They've injected her with something – hurry."

_We need Crane. You're his subject zero, he'll want to keep you alive._ She advises, as the coughing slows to an almost stop. _We can take Emma to Avery, he'll protect her, and then go make Crane give us what we need._

"Help's coming." Dick tells me. I gasp as there's a sharp pain in my arm, and I realize he's gripping a silver cylinder. I see through a clear oval on the side black fill in. He's taking my blood. "We're going to figure out what they did to you. Just hang in there, alright?"

"Sorry." I whisper. "Not enough time."

I drive my elbow back into his ribs. It's unexpected, and he grunts and lets me go. I crawl out of his reach, and the second we're not touching the pavement disappears underneath me and turns into tile. I blink, the world blurring for a minute like a camera trying to refocus on something far away. When it clears I recognize my mother's kitchen – dirty, and reeking of the garbage not being taken out. There's a sickly sweet undertone I'd almost forgotten – the reek of recycled booze bottles.

"Emma?" I call out, sitting back to lean against a cupboard as I cough, this one softer. "Emma!"

"Rachel?"

Her little voice warbles. The fear in it sends me at once to my feet, staggering and clutching at the walls as I rush into the living room. I halt as I see the gigantic man standing, his large hands rested on my tiny sister's shoulders. I can see she's been crying from her red puffy eyes and blotchy skin. She's wearing one of the shirts I bought her. She's terrified – trembling like I've never seen her do before, even when I would carry her out of the apartment while mom and dad fought.

There are two other muscular men in the room, but my eyes go at once to the figure by the window, lean and dressed in a suit. His dark head is tilted as he examines the view. "You know, Miss Carrigan, I have to admit I'm a little disappointed by your predictability."

"Emma, it's okay." I whisper, smiling as I clean away the blood from my nose quickly. "You're going to be fine, okay sweetie?"

"That's a bold statement, Miss _Carrigan_." Crane turns to look at me, smiling coolly as he walks over to Emma. "I was hoping you'd be a bit more interesting – go for self-preservation, maybe the boyfriend, maybe money. But, the second you smell danger you come running to the one thing you actually care about."

I take a step closer as he lays a hand on her head making her whimper. "Don't touch her."

"You're looking unwell." Doctor Crane frowns. "Although considering the last time I saw you, you were dead… I suppose you've doing alright for yourself."

_We can take them_. She whispers to me. _I can. _

_Without them hurting Emma?_

_I'm not letting anything happen to her._

"Miss Carrigan? Are you still with us?" Crane's voice is condescending. "I forgot to mention before – the treatment isn't just a single appointment ordeal. The body needs the drug as part of a daily regiment, otherwise the body begins to reject it and… well." He waves a hand suggestively at my face.

"Let. Her. Go." I cover my mouth as another wave of coughs rack me and I stagger, falling to one knee.

"Rachel!" Emma cries, and she tries to go to me but the man holds her still.

I take a deep breath, then raise my head to meet her stare. "Close your eyes, bug. Don't look until I tell you."

"Miss Carrigan?" Craine's voice is dead, warning. "I think you may want to reconsider."

"Oh?" I feel that eerie smile pull at my mouth. She's trying to take over.

"As I understand you're suffering from a heightened case of multiple personality disorder due to the syrum. If you let go to the other side, there's no telling who you'll hurt." He rubs Emma's hair again.

Her eyes and squished tight, and she's shaking again. I think of the face of the man, the one I killed. For the first time, I wonder if he had family, kids. I push it away, into the dark hole opening in my chest. I can manage that. Could I manage losing her?

"Promise you're not going to hurt her." I order, meeting Craine's icy blues.

A small twitch at the corner of his lips.

"I'm not interested in her. Come here."

I clutch my stomach, and grit my teeth as I force my feet to carry me across the room. The pain is amplifying steadily, and a feel cold tendrels of fear wrapping around my nerves. I cant go through the pain of the first time I died. I can't. From his pocket he draws out a syringe, pulling off the cap. "Sit on the couch."

I collapse onto it, and only my torso makes it so I slide to the ground and turn, sitting up against it.

"Rachel?" Emma calls.

"It's okay, Emma." I lie, watching Crain as he crouches down beside me, rolling up my sleeves to expose the arm where he put the needle before. I stare, the black veins of my arm looking like something from a horror film. I wince as the needle goes in, then sigh and lean my head back as a sudden relief floods my system, cold dosing the flames building in my muscles. It chills my mind, frost blocking my thoughts as I feel her screaming at me.

_Get up! Get up and fight you coward!_

But I don't fight. Instead I shut my eyes, and welcome the coming darkness that smothers me.


	9. Chapter 9

_(Little forewarning, this is the most gory chapter thus far. Consider yourself warned!)_

_Wake up. Wake up you moron._

I open my eyes, but there's nothing to see but black. I can't help wondering if this is blindness.

_Happy with yourself? We're stuck._

I groan involuntarily as I push myself up. I shiver, pulling my trencher closer around me. I'm freezing - the cold from whatever I've been laying on has settled deep inside my body, so that it radiates throughout. I move until I find a wall, and lean against it, pulling my legs up under the trencher and hugging them.

"Where are we?"

_How should I know? This is your plan, remember. _

"Give me a minute, we'll teleport out."

_Oh really? Give it a try. Go on._

I close my eyes despite it being pointless, and picture my bedroom. The new clothes, shoes, the lipstick marked mirror. I imagine the bed under me, the faint noise of the city that never goes away.

But when I open my eyes, nothing.

_What's he done? _ I think, suddenly leery.

I hear her sigh, then laugh at my ignorance. Her laugh brings the image of blood on ice.

_We manipulate shadows, Rachel. If you'd ever bothered to ask, I would have told you. To teleport, we need to connect from one shadow to another. You know what you need for a shadow? Light. Without light, it's just darkness. Useless. Dead. _

_ So no light, no powers._

_ Gold star. _

I roll my eyes, then pull my legs out from under the coat to move onto all fours. I keep my left hand on the wall, then begin to crawl. The wall is solid, and hard like the floor. Not drywall, cement. I pause, reaching into my pockets. Nothing but the lipstick.

_Remind me to pack a gun._

_Well, normal we wouldn't need one now would we?_

_ About done pouting? I could use some assistance. _

_ Why take my help now? I might just go ballistic and get people you love killed. _

_ It was Emma. _

_ I wouldn't ever let anyone hurt our sister. _

Consider that for a moment, sitting back on my heels. The way she talks... she considers us to be the same person. Technically, we are. Aren't we? We share the same body - how can we be separate if we share that? But the idea of her, that murderer having a connection to my sister...

_Did you kill my father? _

For a moment there's silence, and I don't think she's going to answer.

_ I brought Emma over. You didn't see the way he looked at her. _

This goes beyond rage. This is the kind of anger that burns out everything else. No fear, no consideration, no pity. The maelstrom that flares up inside my chest threatens to rip its way out, and I scream, "SHE SAW IT?"

_No! As we left he hit me. I took her home, then I came back and-_

"So that makes it okay? That makes it okay to kill my father?"

_Our father. _

"No, not yours." I snarl. "And Emma is NOT your sister. This isn't your body, this isn't your life. You're the freak product of a chemical equation. You're an aberration."

"How are we today, Miss Carrigan?"

The voice comes out with a weird crackling back noise, and booms in the concrete room. A speaker, projecting Crane's voice.

_ He thinks you've been talking for weeks. Don't blow this._

I stand, careful not to fall over. If I've been under for weeks, I've received more than one injection. I'm too steady and not hungry enough to be suffering malnutrition. I may be trapped, but I'm being cared for.

_He isn't here to help us, Rachel._ She says impatiently. _He wants to use us, to turn us into a weapon._

"Ah, so we're back to this?" Crane sounds mildly amused. "I thought we agreed it's unhealthy for you to have no social interaction but her?"

"Maybe she's starting to sound pretty convincing." I reply, feeling along the wall as I start walking.

"Rachel, she's the product of physiological break. It's your way of coming to terms with these now powers you've been given."

_He's lying_.

"Don't make it sound like it's something naturally occurring. You did this." I snap.

"And you volunteered." He says, drawing his voice out condescendingly. "Miss Carrigan, if we're going to deal with this, you're going to need to let me help you eventually. You're going to need to let me in."

I laugh, my voice sounds like rusty nails. "Help? _You're_ going to help me, huh?"

"Well, I am a doctor."

There's a loud _pop_ noise, and a thread of light appears at the far side of the room. I shut my eyes and think of home, but again when I open them, nothing.

_Suggestions?_

_ The food they gave us. Probably drugged. Play along_.

I walk towards the door hesitantly, placing a hand on the metal. I can feel a gentle raise in temperature in the air filtering in. I shove as hard as I can, and with an angry wail the door flings open, continuing even after I let go so it slams into the hallway's cement wall. I blink for a moment, adjusting to the presence of light, which comes from small round disks on the walls. The walls here are black up to shoulder height, then white leading up to the pipe laden ceiling. Everything is filthy, and as I look down at myself I realize that includes me. I look over my shoulder to the room.

_How long have we been here?_

_Three weeks, four days._ _Focus, you need to get your bearings, figure out where you are so you can figure out how to leave. _

I go onward, my converses squeezing against the mildly wet floor. The hall is filled with other metal doors, painted white with black industrial print numbers. There are no door handles. The hallway begins to twist back and forth, and before long I've gone from 205 to 284. I stop, staring down the length of the hallway. It just keeps going on.

"Crane?" I call. My voice rebounds off the walls, running both ways down the hall. I look up, but cant see any speakers past all the greenish brown pipes.

_Do you think anyone is looking for us? _

_ Dick, maybe. He seems fond._

I roll my eyes and keep walking. I watch the two hundreds give way to three hundreds and frown. _Shouldn't that mean we've gone up a floor?_

I turn around as there's a loud slam. The turn is instinctive, but I have no idea which direction it came from. I stare down where I've come, my shoes leaving streaks in the filth on the floors. There's a languid groan and the sound of lips smacking.

"Who is it today?" The deep male voice calls out. "Oh, tell me you've got good one!"

I feel the adrenaline first, then my body reaching out instinctively to her. It's like running into a net when you can see the way out – fear, confusion, despair.

_Run. Now!_

I do, back the direction I'd come. There's no point thinking about which way when I have no way of knowing. I stop to listen as I come on the first corner.

"Oh don't run now, don't you understand? I'm here to help you. I'm here to bring you… peace."

_He's closer. _

I run the other way, cursing at all the noise I'm making.

_Rachel, listen to me. You need to move above the fear, don't let it drive you. Now think, what do you need to beat this guy?_

I keep running as I try to do what she says, try to ignore the panic pulsating throughout my body.

I stop for a moment to catch my breath. There's a strange sound now, like metal click against metal. A weapon. I need a weapon.

_Good, now look around you for one_.

I looked to the ground, but there's just dirt. So I start running again, scanning.

_Try the pipes. Find one that's loose._

I skid to a stop and jump, grabbing hold of the pipes above me, I cling onto a thin one, and it lets out a squeak, folding downward slightly under my weight. Shocks run through my fingers, and I start pushing the pipe up and yanking down.

"Come here. Face your salvation."

He's even more close. My motions become frantic, and the pipe comes as I pull with all my weight. I hit the ground hard and start running again, ignoring the blood coming off my hands where the scraped the metal. I'll worry about disease after the insane guy.

_Knock out the lights._

I turn and swing, and the pipe jams against the plastic. It cracks, but the light stays on.

"I heaaaar you."

I raise the pipe over my head and drive it down into the light. Smashing glass, and darkness falls. I run on to the next one, stabbing again. It takes three to smash this light, and there's considerable darkness where I am but not enough to hide in. I'm about to go for the next one when I see movement behind me, a body slamming against the wall.

He's shirtless, exposing a chest so deformed with scars he looks like something out of a old horror film. He's bald, his brows and eyes dark. He wears a prison uniform, the top of the jumpsuit hanging about his waist. And clutched in one hand is a knife.

A jagged grin spreads over his face as he sees me, and he stands up with childish eagerness. "There you are. Look at you – you're young. I'm saving you from so much… you should be thanking me you know."

_They're a tally._ She breaths. She's right – the scars overlap in crooked documentation of some count. He sees me looking at them and chuckles. "I'll make yours a little longer, how about that?"

He laughs harder as I take a step back, gripping the pipe tighter.

_Don't show fear._ She urges. _When he comes at you, get the knife out of his hand. He'll want to use it – that's his weakness. He won't kill you unless it's with the knife. _

_And how am I supposed to get it out of his hand?_ He starts moving towards me, cutting the air in large swipes.

_Trust your body. It will know what to do_.

I'm too scared to even make a snarky Star Wars comment. Because he's so close I can smell the sweat and blood sticking to him, and I'm alone here. I lower the pipe slowly, and his eyes shine. "That's a girl – just embrace it."

He lays a hand on my shoulder, towering over me. I moves the knife to his right hand, and brings it up to the right side of my throat so he can drag it across. "En -"

I swing the pipe up and right, slamming the weapon away and forcing him to turn. He staggers into the wall and I swing again, the pipe singing as it cracks against his skull, and he roars as the gnarled metal fingers drag claws across his skin leaving a gash in their wake. He swings and I step back out of the knife but on the return he punches me with the hand holding the knife, flicking it forward so blade meets skin. My cheek opens under the cool surface, and I have to lurch back as he drags it up my face trying to take off a hunk.

He over extends, so I ram the end of the pipe into his elbow, cracking it the wrong way. He screams as the knife comes loose, and another _ping_ from the pipe and the weapon goes flying. It falls into the dark, and he knocks me off my feet with the back of his hand. I hit the wall as slide down, and then massive hands clamp around my throat and squeeze.

I make an involuntary wheeze noise as the air crushes out of my windpipe as he lands on my chest with his knees. She was wrong. He doesn't need the knife. This is the moment I expect fear to win, to send me spiraling into a clawing trashing pathetic end. But instead there's calm, like standing up at a massive height looking down on the world. There's a sense of detachment, and yet…

Power.

I drive my empty hand forward into his chest, and it slides through with the ease that tells me it's in an immaterial state. But I can feel them – his insides. I feel the stiff bone of his spine and close my fist around some squishy organ. I hear him scream from a distant place, and feel the relief flood through my body as air comes whistling down into my lungs. His lurching back pulls my hand out of the hole it's created.

He falls backward, yelling and twitching and howling. His body begins to go into a seizure, and the black boots he's wearing thump loudly against the ground again and again as blood goes everywhere. I don't stay to watch, I grab the pipe and run. I keep running until finally there's a door and –

I slam through and land on white marble. I find myself contemplating more stone as I lay on the unforgiving surface, staring at my red coated hand. I've left a streak on the perfect white.

Blood on ice.

I blink, and then the peace gives way to horror. I begin to cry, something I haven't done since I was a little girl. It's all consuming, and I'm too violated to feel embarrassed any longer. I curl up and continue sobbing until someone grabs my arm, turning me onto my back. I can't see past my burning vision. I don't want to see. Because anyone sharing in this moment is unacceptable. I can't afford the weakness of sharing in my grief anymore. The people who have that are going to die.


End file.
